


the frail crucible of her body

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Depression, Eleanor Cobham has issues, F/M, Fertility Issues, Heavy Angst, Humphrey is a good husband, Implied/Referenced Sex, Internalized Misogyny, Mentions of past miscarriages, Self-Hatred, Vomiting, gross and dubious fertility treatments, so many issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 22:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19777735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Eleanor Cobham tries a dubious fertility remedy. It makes her sick.Worse, it doesn't even work.





	the frail crucible of her body

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I feel to need to warn for heavy angst. I described this fic to a friend as "writing Eleanor into a corner at what she thinks is the bottom of her pit of despair and then having to nudge her out of it a little". 
> 
> This was inspired by a number of things, firstly my frustrations with the way Eleanor Cobham’s fertility issues have been depicted in various historical fiction novels and secondly a conversation with angevin2 about historical conception aids and the issues that both Eleanor Cobham and Anne of Bohemia faced as medieval women suffering from infertility.
> 
> Historical notes are at the end.

**1438**

It was warm in the gardens and yet Eleanor was cold, constantly tugging her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Margery Jourdemayne was seated on the edge of a raised garden bed, her bag open between her feet.

‘It hasn’t worked,’ Eleanor said, knowing she was repeating herself. ‘I thought – you _said_ – but nothing’s worked.’

Her hand flew up to her mouth. Margery looked up and regarded her with one brow cocked.

‘And you’re sure? Sometimes it takes a while to know…’

Eleanor had heard this before and was almost certain Margery said things like that to buy herself more time when her remedies failed. Another favourite of hers was _and you’re sure you’re using it right?_ Those excuses would not work this time. Eleanor had waited and waited to be sure and Margery had applied the first three stinking poultices herself until she declared Eleanor’s ladies could be trusted to do it themselves.

‘I bled last week,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ Margery said and looked through her bag again, little glass and ceramic bottles tinkling. Eleanor gritted her teeth. ‘And it was no thicker than usual?’

‘No.’

She knew what Margery was hoping. That instead of being her monthly blood, it had been the child passing from her. It had happened before. The worst was just before Margery had started helping her conceive. Eleanor had been so happy to be with child and wanted to tell Humphrey when he returned from court. But he had been delayed and she had bled. He was a good man, her husband, and still grieving the loss of his oldest brothers. She hadn’t wanted to tell him and add to his griefs.

But when he had returned, she had given herself away by crying in the face of his obliviousness. He had been kind and gentle with her, but she had wounded him all the same with her failure.

Margery sighed. ‘I will need time to prepare something different.’

Eleanor’s lips thinned and she turned away, hands clenching into fists. The gardens were lovely, lush and green with bright splashes of colour where flowers bloomed. How could it look so full of life, she wondered, when she had none?

‘I will return within a week, perhaps a little longer,’ Margery said. ‘With something new. Something that has a better chance of working.’

Eleanor wanted to tell her not to come back. Margery had made those promises for years and no good had ever come of them. There had not even been the _hope_ of a child. But what else was Eleanor supposed to do? She could not give up.

‘We will speak then.’

‘If it does not work, your grace,’ Margery said. ‘There are other ways.’

*

Eleanor found Humphrey in his library that evening, sitting by the fire with a closed book in his hands and his eyes shut. He was not sleeping but did not notice her until she brushed cool fingers against his forehead. Then he looked up at her with those dark eyes she loved and smiled. She sat on his lap and his arms encircled her, pulling her close before raising her chin to kiss her.

‘I love you.’

‘I know.’

She laid her head on his shoulder and felt the warmth of his body, his hand on her hip and the other moving up to trace along her jawline.

‘What did you do today?’

‘Not much,’ she said. ‘Tried on all my gowns, gave some away, ordered some new ones. Planned the week’s meals and had my hair braided. Do you like it?’

‘Oh, it’s lovely, it’s…’ he said unconvincingly, his hand going up to tease at one of the coiled braids hidden underneath jewelled nets. He shook his head. ‘No.’

She laughed, pushed his hand away. ‘Just because you think it’s a great travesty when _my_ hair is bound up—’

‘It’s not a travesty,’ Humphrey said. ‘It’s just unfortunate. You have such lovely hair. Of course, you would still look beautiful even if it all fell out. Which is more than I can say for some.’

His hand rubbed his scalp self-consciously; he was beginning to go bald. She leant up and pressed her lips to the top of his head. She did not really mind – he was getting older, but he was still handsome for his age, and she, after all, did not love his hair, but him.

‘So what else did you do today?’ he said.

‘I saw the woman who sells me the creams for my skin.’

His nose wrinkled, he had met Margery once, by accident, and did not seem to like her, which was strange because he liked everyone as soon as he met them – it was after that the problems started. She had not told him that Margery sold her other things, medicines to try and make her conceive.

‘Don’t pull that face,’ she said, running a finger down his nose. ‘Or else I won’t tell you the other news.’

‘You mean, besides your braids and your new gowns and creams?’

‘Much more important than any of that,’ she said.

‘Some of the books I’ve commissioned have been completed and will soon arrive?’

‘Humphrey!’

‘Eleanor!’ he said, mimicking her.

She laughed and pressed her forehead to Humphrey’s shoulder. She had received the letter from his daughter – his _bastard_ daughter – this morning, and she did not want to tell him, to have to say it out loud, but it would make him happy. Her upset was petty and small but she could not help it.

‘Eleanor,’ he said, hand squeezing her hip gently. He was becoming worried and he shouldn’t be _._

‘There’s a letter from Antigone,’ she said. ‘I don’t have it with me now, but there’s good news.’ She swallowed, felt his chin come to rest against her head. ‘She’s asked if she can come and stay with us – with _you_ – for a few months later this year.’

‘Of course she can,’ Humphrey says, leaning back in the chair. She knew he was smiling, though his grip on her tightened quickly. ‘Did she say why – she’s not unhappy, is she?’

‘No! She’s pregnant,’ Eleanor said and forced back her bitterness. ‘Again. She wants you to be close by for the birth so you can be godfather to this one.’

‘What? Oh, but that’s – oh.’

‘I know,’ Eleanor said, forcing herself to smile. ‘It’s such good news. Oh, I can’t wait for her to be _here._ ’

She liked Antigone. Humphrey’s little girl who had grown up to be a striking woman with sleek black hair and his dark eyes and a wide, heart-shaped face. But it stung like salt on a wound that Humphrey would be a grandfather a second time over before she had even given him one child. Perhaps Margery would have the right cure this time. Perhaps by the time Antigone arrived, Eleanor would be pregnant and then they would be happy with only the slightest bitterness remaining.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ Humphrey said, stroking her back.

‘Why would I mind?’ Eleanor said.

Humphrey shook his head and kissed her firmly. ‘No reason,’ he said. ‘Only it seemed fair to ask since you will be looking after her.’

‘I love you,’ she said.

‘I know.’

She laughed and kissed him again, stroking her hands over his face. He held her close, hand going up to play with her hair again. She swatted him away – if she let him do as he liked, her hair would end up unravelled and she would have to have it braided again before they could sit down to eat.

*

Margery returned within a week, as she had promised, and met with Eleanor in the room she used for dressing. Margery set a small ceramic bottle on the table and Eleanor stared at it, one finger tracing over the sapphire ring Humphrey had given her a few days ago. The bottle was so similar to the other potions Margery had presented her with – ones to conceive, ones to retain youth and beauty, ones to ease the cramps of her monthly bleeding – all coming with promises that _this one_ was better than the one that came before, worth the extra money Margery asked for, and Eleanor was a fool for wanting what Margery had given her before, even when these new potions made her nauseous.

Eleanor reached for it, held it in her hand. Was this one any different? She pulled the cork from it and gagged. It smelt putrid, like something rancid. An animal corpse left to rot, a child’s soiled swaddling cloths. Margery grabbed the bottle and shoved the stopper back in place.

‘Careful,’ she said. ‘You’ll spill it and have to wait another week for me to make it again.’

Eleanor could still _smell_ it. She gagged again and leapt to her feet, going over to bury her nose in the flowers set by the window.

‘The stronger it smells, the better it will work, your grace,’ Margery said. ‘You must drink all of it and lay with your husband with a few hours. Twelve at most.’

‘You expect me to drink it?’ Eleanor demanded. She could not, she could not. She could barely smell it without wanting to be sick.

‘It has to be drunk, your grace. It cannot work if you just sniff it or pour it on your skin.’

‘It’s poison!’

‘It is _not_. I would never try to poison you, your grace.’ Margery was offended, her lips drew together tight. ‘A child is a hardship and the mother makes many sacrifices for them. Why should the getting of one be any different?’

Margery’s voice was hard and sharp, her reproach clear. _Unnatural, stupid woman,_ she seemed to say, _you think the getting of children should be as easy as lying on your back for a man like the whore you are._ Eleanor’s hands were fisted, nails cutting her palms. She was no fool. She had attended births before, had been the one who held Antigone and stroked back her hair when Humphrey’s first grandson was born.

But Margery was right. A child was work and pain. Maybe this – _potion_ was what she needed. The first sacrifice motherhood demanded of her.

‘Alright,’ she said, making her hands relax. ‘So, all of it? And it will work?’

‘Yes,’ Margery said. ‘It costs a bit, though. It wasn’t easy to—’

‘Speak to my clerk,’ Eleanor said. ‘And you will be paid.’

*

She woke shivering in the middle of the night. Humphrey was asleep beside her, and yet she could not feel his warmth. She wanted him to wake up and hold her, but could not move and if she could, she would not be able to bear it. He was a restless sleeper, often having nightmares though he tried to spare her from them, and she never wanted to disturb him if she could avoid it. Her teeth were chattering and she wondered if the fire had burnt down too low, if she should go and make sure it was tended to. If Humphrey woke and found the fire had gone out, he would be upset.

She should check on it, she thought – and then Humphrey had rolled over, his arm falling over her and breath coming warm against her bare shoulder. She felt it when he woke, tried to stay still so he would slip easily back to sleep, but he was so warm and she was so cold and she could not stop herself from shuddering.

‘Eleanor?’ he whispered. ‘You’re freezing.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t – give me a moment.’

He pulled back the hangings and got up. She managed to pull the blankets up higher around her, watching as he crouched near the fire – not out yet, but only embers. He stirred it up, added fresh wood though he should have called a servant to do it, and then came back, picked her up, blankets and all, and carried her to the fire. She meant to protest, but couldn’t.

He sat her on his lap, moved his hands gently over her arms and back, working warmth back into them and she pressed her face into his shoulder. She hadn’t taken the potion yet. She meant to – one big swallow before she tumbled into bed with him, but he had been there and she had not wanted to explain what it was or, worse, risk him tasting it in her mouth. Perhaps she should chew mint after she drank it but maybe that would render it useless. Margery had not said.

‘Better?’ he asked quietly, gathering her close, and she nodded. He checked her temperature by laying the back of his hand against her forehead but he didn’t start fussing so she supposed she wasn’t sick.

And she was feeling better. She was warm again, safe and cosy by the fire, and now felt foolish – if the cure was as simple as going to sit by the fire or being held by her husband, she could have cured herself and let Humphrey sleep undisturbed.

‘Sorry,’ she said again.

He shook his head. ‘It’s nice, this. Sitting with you by the fire.’

She smiled. ‘In nought but our skins?’

‘I wasn’t going to mention that.’

‘You should have.’

‘Oh, really?’

They were laughing, and his hand slipped beneath her blankets and cupped a breast. Her breath caught, her stomach clenched and she thought she would never be sick of this, of wanting him, of having him. They would make love by the fire and then go back to bed and do it again and he would keep her warm and she would lie in his arms and try very hard not to think, _and this is why people call you a slut, doing it on the floor like an animal._ But what did it matter? She wanted this, liked this, and he didn’t think she was wrong for it. He loved _her_ , and wanted her as much as she wanted him.

She turned in his arms and pushed her hand between his legs.

*

Humphrey was going to be away for a while. He needed to attend a meeting that made him look irritated whenever he mentioned it and then a hunt with the king that made him look only slightly less irritated. He would return in two nights’ time and would, he said, miss her.

Eleanor kissed him goodbye, fingers grasping his arms, and wished he would not go. The business of the kingdom made him ill-tempered and depressed, certain they were all acting to spite him and would undo all his dead brothers’ work. She stood by the gate and watched him go until she could no longer see him, then went inside.

She busied herself with her duties, picked at her food, slept poorly and sat by the fire, sewing Humphrey new shirts and embroidering a tiny heart over the chest. He would only see it when he was dressing, but it would still sit over his own heart like a guard. A reminder that he was loved.

*

The day he was due back, she laid in bed for hours with her eyes closed and then got up and went to mass. She returned to her room and sat with the bottled potion in front of her, tapping her nail against it. She did not want to drink it. If she was lucky – and she wasn’t – it would taste half as bad as it smelt. But Margery’s potions always tasted worse. Eleanor needed to give Humphrey an heir and she wanted to be a mother. She had to drink it.

Eleanor stood and paced her room. The day was getting on. Humphrey would return soon and when he did, it would hard to get a moment on her own to down the potion. And then there was the risk he would taste or smell it on her.

Twelve hours, Margery had said. It was a good amount of time. Eleanor could drink it and let the taste fade from her mouth before Humphrey returned. Eleanor snatched up the potion, uncorked it, and poured it into her mouth, swallowing immediately, and then kept swallowing as though that would rid her of the awful taste. It was deeply bitter, leaving her tongue coated in salt. She could feel it sitting heavily in her belly.

She gagged and gagged again, and wondered what would happen if she brought it up. Margery had not said, but Eleanor supposed that her warning that the potion had to be drunk to work was enough. It would not work if she could not keep it within her. She did not want to have to go through this again. She paced, focused on drawing deep breaths into her until the urge to gag seemed to pass. She rested her hands against the tapestry-covered wall and breathed in. Humphrey would be there soon, she told herself, and if this worked, this would only be a small sacrifice for their great joy.

*

Humphrey was late.

Eleanor was unsteady at the news and one of her damsels asked her if she was alright, if she feared some catastrophe had happened, and then said, _you are pale, your grace._ Eleanor sent her for a mirror and pinched her cheeks until they were pink again. She looked down at her hands, the rings of amethyst that matched the jewels in her hair, and they were shaking. Was this the potion at work? Would not Humphrey arrive soon?

When he finally arrived, stripping off his gloves in the hallway, he seemed annoyed until she came forward and kissed him. His hands circled her waist and drew her close; she felt him relax in her arms. She pulled away and removed his mantle and hat, handing them to an attendant to take care of.

‘I suppose you want a bath first,’ she said. ‘Followed by something to eat.’

He laughed, but then caught her wrist. He frowned as he studied her. Had he tasted the potion on her mouth? She felt her stomach twist and squashed the urge to belch.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘You’re pale. And shaking.’

‘A little cold, that’s all,’ she said, giving a smile. ‘Come, I’ve missed you.’

She took his arm and began leading him upstairs. He leant in close as they came to their room, his breath warm against her ear.

‘Perhaps I could have the bath second?’

She laughed and pressed his arm. ‘No. _You_ smell like horse.’

‘So could you,’ he said, ‘and then we could share the bath.’

‘And then have to wait while the sheets are changed so our bed doesn’t also smell of horse? No thank you!’

*

Eleanor sat down on the stool beside the bath while Humphrey bathed. She had drawn back the hangings so they could see each other and begun to unravel her hair from its braids. She meant to set the jewelled pins into their jar, but she kept dropping them. She felt queasy – it was the excitement of having him back, she told herself, and would settle soon.

A pin fell from her fingers, clattered onto the floor and she could only stare it. If she bent to pick it up, she would fall. She pressed her hands to her lap, tried to drag air into her lungs but her body felt as though it was sinking, becoming numb.

‘Eleanor,’ Humphrey said, quite urgently.

She forced herself to look up and smile. Her hair was half loose, a handful of pins still in place and one fallen on the floor. She did not think she could finish the job of undoing her hair. Humphrey did not seem convinced by her effort to pretend all was well.

‘Go and lie down,’ he said. ‘You look awful.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just cold. And a little excited.’

He wasn’t convinced by that either. His hands moved under the water, made ripples, and then he reached over and picked up the fallen pin, dropping it into the jar on her lap. He was frowning and he should not have been frowning – she was fine. She plucked the pins from her hair quickly, letting them fall wherever they liked and set the jar aside, before leaning in to kiss him. His hands were wet as they cradled her face.

‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘Go and lie down. I’m nearly finished.’

She nodded, kissed him again and somehow managed to get to bed. Her damsels undressed her and she laid down, resting her head on her arm. Her stomach lurched and she knew it was not excitement. She was ill. _No,_ she thought, _no_ – she could not be ill. Not today, not when she had taken the potion. Tomorrow, or even in a few hours – that would be alright, so long as she could do as Margery had directed and the potion was allowed to work.

She closed her eyes, tried to push back the nausea. She only needed a little time. Humphrey would be there soon and they would have sex and the potion would work and then she could be as sick as she liked. She would have done it properly, like Margery had said, and she would be pregnant. She just needed a little time before she could allow herself to be ill.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ Humphrey’s voice said.

She opened her eyes and made herself smile at him. If he was worried, he would not want to fuck her and it would ruin everything.

‘You know I don’t sleep well when you’re away,’ she said which was both true and safe to say. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

‘I was only gone two nights,’ he said and reached out to cup her cheek.

She nuzzled into his hand and desperately tried to remember how to act normal when all she wanted to do was curl up with a basin and pray until the urge to be sick passed. He would be gentle with her if she admitted to how ghastly she felt but he would leave her to the tender care of her damsels and physician. He would not stay. Worse than that, he would not fuck her and she would have wasted Margery’s potion.

He sat down on the bed beside her and drew her close, letting her rest her head on his thigh and rubbing his hand over her back. She could feel the warmth of it and remembered how it felt on her skin the night before he had left her. How good he was at pleasuring her. But that was so distant, so vague. Her body could not be roused like that now, struggling with this sickness the way it was, and she felt so ill that she doubted her body could ever be aroused again.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please. You have to—’

She couldn’t, couldn’t. Her breath came fast and she tried to pull away from him, but she couldn’t move quick enough. Humphrey, panicked but far away, was saying _what’s wrong, Eleanor, what’s—_ and she wanted to tell him but couldn’t.

She felt him jerk, an exclamation of disgust tearing out of his mouth, and then he was shouting, calling for someone and she didn’t care, couldn’t care, because all she could do was be sick. He sat her up, pulling her hair back from her face, and suddenly there was a basin in front of her and people rushing around.

‘Where’s the physician?’ Humphrey said, loud and furious. ‘Where is he?’

*

The physician couldn’t do much. He ordered potions of his own that she could barely drink, much less keep down, and said there wasn’t anything they could do but wait, though he sent for a surgeon to bleed her when Humphrey shouted at him. She had tried to stay still for that, but another fit of heaving overtook her and a line of thick, dark blood ran down her arm until they managed to bandage it. It stained the shapeless smock they had put her in effort to preserve her dignity. Periodically, they took the used basins from her, replacing them with clean, empty ones. She had vomited so much that she had only brought up bile for the last hour or so.

She was tired and cold, but Humphrey was with her. He had left only briefly to wash again and returned dressed simply, face flushed as if he had run all the way, as if he could not bear to be apart from her. And he had held her and soothed her and even washed her with warm water that smelt of roses. He was holding her even now, exhausted and half-asleep, as if she was not filthy and stinking of blood and vomit that no amount of perfumed water could disguise.

Eleanor turned in his arms. It had been some time since her body had purged itself, though she occasionally heaved ineffectually into the basin. Perhaps it had passed. She hoped so. She did not think she – or Humphrey – could take much more of this if it went on; already she could barely lift her head and her back hurt. She couldn’t hold it straight without pain.

‘Humphrey,’ she said.

Her voice came out as a hoarse, cracking whisper but he stirred, hugging her close.

‘You should go and get something to eat,’ she said. ‘And then sleep. You shouldn’t stay.’

He was frowning. She couldn’t see it, but she could sense it. His fingers dug into her before his grip gentled.

‘I shouldn’t stay? Why?’

She shook her head, was overtaken by another fit of heaving but brought nothing up. It had to be ending. He rubbed her back, his hand working down the length of her spine, and it felt good to have him with her, to know he was there, but he shouldn’t have been there.

‘The room smells, _I_ smell,’ she said when she could talk again. ‘And you’re tired.’

‘I don’t care,’ he said.

She closed her eyes and leant back against his chest. He was warm, he was safe and he didn’t want to leave.

‘This isn’t what I wanted or planned for your return,’ she said.

‘No,’ Humphrey said. He didn’t sound angry, more tired and sad.

She felt the same. It was too late. If he had returned earlier, everything would be different. She would still be sick, but her body would not have purged itself before she had a chance to lie with him. Now she would have to speak to Margery, ask her for another potion and be told what she had done wrong.

What would Margery say this time? Eleanor had failed to heed her instructions. Eleanor should have had Humphrey fuck her as she lay sick and miserable. Even thinking it was enough to turn Eleanor’s stomach again and she pulled away from Humphrey to retch into the basin. Nothing came up. Her throat ached.

‘What time is it?’

‘Late,’ Humphrey said. His fingers rubbed warm circles onto her back. ‘Close to midnight, I would think.’

She nodded. ‘There’s no point in us both being miserable. You should go. Sleep. Eat something.’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Find a warm bed. Thomasine will gladly give you one.’

‘I’m not – _what_?’

Eleanor let her head fall back against his shoulder. She had wondered whether it would hurt to tell him about Thomasine, whether she would be jealous, but it felt rather easy. She hadn’t even known what she was saying until she’d said it.

‘Thomasine’s pretty, isn’t she? Beautiful eyes. And she likes you rather a lot. She wants you, you know – she would welcome you in her bed.’

‘Eleanor,’ Humphrey said, sounding quite pained. ‘I’m not sure what you’re trying to say. I’m not leaving you. And I don’t even know who Thomasine is.’

‘She’s the one with the eyes.’

‘Oh, she has eyes, that’s very helpful,’ Humphrey said, almost laughing, but he kissed Eleanor’s forehead and held her close. ‘I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone but you.’

Eleanor smiled, laid her hand over his. There was still time left for the potion to work, though she doubted she could tempt Humphrey. But she had to try.

‘You can fuck me. Right now.’

She imagined it. Lying flat on her back and spreading her legs for him, having him pump away at her while she felt as if she had been carved out of her own body. She knew she should be disgusted but she couldn’t feel anything.

‘Are you mad?’ Humphrey said. ‘No, that’s not – no!’

‘Please,’ she said. ‘You need to—’

‘No!’

She stayed silent, felt his hands tighten around her. He sighed and kissed her forehead again, hugging her close.

‘You are my beloved wife. You are sick. I am not going to leave you or – or – or _use_ you. Eleanor, please stop talking like this – just please.’

Eleanor turned, pressed her face against his chest and wept.

*

In the grey hours of the dawn, she was woken by the physician and examined again. She was tired and could barely keep her eyes open, but he gave her a potion that tasted of mint and ginger and she kept it down. She was allowed to go back to sleep then, laying her head on Humphrey’s chest and letting his arms settle around her.

The rest of the day was a haze. Mostly, she slept but when she roused, she was given more potions and, later, broth. In the afternoon, her ladies took her to bathe and while she was gone, the bedding was changed and the air perfumed. Humphrey was with her throughout most of it, and though it seemed the worst had passed, he seemed very pale and very worried.

In the evening, she was given some bread to eat alongside the broth and that stayed down. Humphrey left her to eat but he was back before she could even begin to miss him.

‘Did you even eat anything, or did you just walk down to the kitchens and breathe it in?’

‘I ate,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’

‘Very quickly.’

He laughed and sat down beside her, pressing his lips to her forehead. She took his hand, wove their fingers together. He had been very sweet, staying with her throughout the ordeal. She had not expected it of him, had expected him to take every out she offered him. He pulled her close to him, wrapped his arms around her tightly.

‘You seem brighter,’ he said. ‘And your colour is better. You’re not so pale.’

‘I am a lot better.’

He kissed her then, his lips pressing against her forehead, then her cheek and then her lips. It was gentle and tender and when they parted, he gathered her close again, his hand stroking through her hair, loose around her shoulders. He seemed sad, even though he shouldn’t be – she was recovering. She had eaten real food and kept it down. She would be fine by tomorrow evening, if not sooner.

‘What?’ she said, reaching out to touch his face.

He took her hand and kissed the palm. ‘I love you so much.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But why does make you sad?’

He shook his head and kissed her hand again.

‘It’s not sad,’ he said. ‘But I was frightened, last night. You were so ill and the physician could not help you and I thought—’

‘Oh Humphrey.’

‘I know, I shouldn’t say it,’ he said. He held her hand to his mouth. ‘I just kept thinking about Harry and how he – went.’

Eleanor did not know what to say, but she understood what he needed from her. She hugged him tight, laid her head against his shoulder. Of his three brothers, she had only met Bedford and then only briefly, but she knew how much Humphrey loved them and how much grieved them, even now. Humphrey shook and she held him tighter, rubbing his back.

‘He was sick like you,’ he said. ‘And he didn’t get better and I wasn’t there, _I wasn’t_ , and they brought him back. And he was dead.’

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut. No wonder he had been so attentive, so stubborn in his refusal to leave her. She was sorry she had hurt him so.

‘But you’re better,’ Humphrey said. ‘You’re getting better. You won’t go like he did.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not. You’re stuck with me.’

‘Good.’

*

She woke during the dark hours of the night, still in Humphrey’s arms. She had slept so much during the day that she supposed it wasn’t strange that she woke now and couldn’t sleep. It didn’t really matter. She was comfortable, warm and safe, and needed nothing. She could not even think of what she would do if she was to get out of bed.

But it also meant she had nothing to do but think, and what she had been too tired during the day to consider came to the fore. She had failed and could not try again until she sent to Margery for another bottle of the potion. Until she faced Margery’s disapproving scrutiny again, there would be no child.

She covered her mouth so the sound of her sob wouldn’t wake Humphrey. No child, no heir. She was barren and useless for everything except being looked at and fucked, and there was only time before those things began to fail. Her beauty was already beginning to fade with age, no matter what potions and creams Margery sold her.

And Humphrey loved her. He loved her so much he would be sorry if she died, even though it would mean he could marry someone who would be younger and prettier and better suited. Someone who, most importantly, would give him an heir at last.

Eleanor would have liked to have a child. It didn’t matter now whether it was a daughter or a son now, but she had imagined one of each. A girl and a boy. She had imagined them so often that they were almost real. The boy with messy dark hair would have been called Harry, after Humphrey’s brother, and he would be brave and strong, but sweet and quick to smile. They would have named the girl Blanche or Joanne or Mary and she would be beautiful and courteous, determined and loyal. They would have taken their children out riding, taught them how to feed the ducks and played with them in the sun. Harry would grow up tall and win renown for his learning and his skill with a blade, Mary or Joanne or Blanche would be famous for her beauty and compassion. No one would dare call Eleanor a whore again and she would be an excellent mother and wife.

Eleanor could almost see them, their small, dark heads bent together in the sun, and could almost feel Humphrey’s arm around her, his body warm, his pride clear. It would never be. Her children were nothing but a dream. A delusion.

Humphrey sighed in his sleep. He deserved so much more than what she could give him and she? She did not deserve him.

*

In two days’ time, her health had much improved. She was still a little weak and cautious with what she ate, but the physician was pleased, Humphrey no longer watched her so worriedly and the sickness had become a memory. But her spirits were low and could not be roused, nor her depression forgotten.

She seemed, even to herself, to spend an inordinate time in bed, doing nothing. She had the excuse of weakness and exhaustion, but even so, it seemed excessive and unnecessary no matter what the physician – or Humphrey – said. The creams for her skin sat unused, her new gowns went unworn. She did not pick up her embroidery but sewed Humphrey several more shirts. She thought, sometimes, of the creams and gowns, wondered why she had commissioned them and then realised she was both desperate and vain, believing that she deserved such finery and that her beauty would remain untarnished by time.

It was only that Humphrey suggested it and seemed to look particularly keen about the idea that she agreed to go out in the gardens. Her women dressed her in warm clothes, braided her hair and hid it beneath a simple coif. Then Humphrey took her hand and led her out into the sun.

Her eyes watered and she had to stare down at her feet, blinking rapidly, until she had gotten used to the light. Humphrey’s arm slipped around her waist as she looked around. A wind must have gotten up during the night; the ground was strewn with scattered leaves and torn petals, and the hedges were a little wild, the staked roses askew.

Humphrey squeezed her gently and they walked for a little while, wandering through the lines of the gardens. Some of the groundsmen were at work repairing the damage and Humphrey stopped to speak with them, making jests and inquiring about their duties. All his men loved him. She was certain that they resented her, the smear on their duke’s reputation, the _whore_ who bewitched him away from his rightful wife. Eleanor closed her eyes and rested her head on Humphrey’s shoulder, letting their voices wash over her.

‘Eleanor,’ Humphrey said, squeezing her arm.

She opened her eyes and saw one of the gardeners offering her a trio of roses, freshly picked and perfect, the petals a blush pink. She smiled, reaching out to take them.

‘For you, your grace,’ he said. ‘Since you’ve not been feeling well. Sorry they’re not that many or nicely presented. I can—’

He made a gesture towards one of the rose bushes.

‘Oh no, please don’t,’ she said. ‘These are perfect, thank you.’

‘I hope you feel better soon, your grace,’ the gardener said and bowed sharply.

Humphrey led her away. She supposed the gardener didn’t mean any of it, had only made the gesture to please Humphrey. Still, it had been sweet of him to pretend.

‘Here,’ Humphrey said. ‘Let’s sit for a little while, alright?”

They settled on a stone bench and Humphrey fussed over her. He wound her shawl around her shoulders tightly and pulled her close to him, tucking his head over hers. He held her like that for several moments, his hands on her shoulders, his beard brushing against the back of her neck. Then he pulled away and watched as her women wandered about, some setting out food and wine and others settling beside the slender trunk of a beech to play music or embroider.

‘So, which one is Thomasine?’

Eleanor’s face was numb. She wanted to smile and make light of it, but instead, with a dull thud of fear she pointed to where Thomasine was fussing with the wine cups. She had thought – she had not known what she had thought, but he had not seemed interested in the prospect of another lover. But he was asking about Thomasine now and Eleanor would not like it if he thought Thomasine _pretty._ If he thought now to take Thomasine and her warm bed. But it was what Eleanor deserved.

‘Oh her,’ Humphrey said, brow creasing. ‘Well, that explains it. She’s always barging in or dropping things when I’m in the room and then acting very sorry about it, even though I’m sure she does it deliberately.’

Eleanor smiled despite herself. Humphrey’s nose wrinkled.

‘She’s not that pretty.’

‘Are you blind? She’s got beautiful eyes.’

Beautiful eyes and so much more. Rounded breasts, a pleasant smile, good skin, and hair like bronze. And eager to please and an admirable openness. Sometimes, she reminded Eleanor of who she had been when she first met Humphrey.

‘Maybe I am blind,’ Humphrey said cheerfully. ‘But then, I have you right next to me.’

Eleanor whipped around to study him.

‘But then John—’ he meant his brother, Bedford ‘—always said I was selfish. That I couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – see what was right in front of me if it wasn’t what I wanted. And I want you. Only you. Always.’

She took his hand and squeezed it. He smiled, but it was sad and he should not have been sad. He deserved so much more than she could give him.

‘But I’m not very good at seeing the obvious,’ he said. ‘As John always made clear. I don’t know if I’m what you want – at least, I mean, I’m fairly certain you do want me. Most of the time. But if you need something else – time away, space, or something like that – from me, you have to tell me. Because otherwise, I’ll just be getting in your way all the time.’

‘But I like that,’ Eleanor said. ‘Like the time you helped me with my embroidery.’

Humphrey’s cheeks flushed, but he did look pleased.

‘We should do that again,’ Humphrey said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. ‘What I’m trying to say is – you frightened me, a little, a few nights ago,’ he said. ‘Not just because you were so sick. But you seemed quite insistent that I – that we should have sex. Even when it was abundantly clear how sick you were.’

‘Oh,’ Eleanor said.

His fingers traced along the back of her neck, played with the wisps of hair that had escaped the coif.

‘You don’t need to give me anything you don’t want to,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to – I don’t know, take a mistress, if you don’t lay with me. You don’t owe me anything, Eleanor.’

But the problem was she did. A child, an heir – that was what every good wife owed her husband and what she had failed to give him. She turned away from him, staring out at the grounds until she no longer wanted to cry. Then she took a breath.

He wouldn’t like the truth. He wouldn’t like that she was _worried_ about their lack of children, nor would he like Margery giving her medicinal potions. But it was better than the conclusion he had come to on his own. Though he was trying to be brave and mature about it, she could tell he was anxious and hurt about the idea that she hadn’t always been willing to join him in bed.

‘Humphrey,’ she said, tugging on his arm. ‘Don’t think like that. It wasn’t about that.’

He shook his head miserably. ‘Then what? I don’t know what’s wrong. You just seem so sad.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘It wasn’t about owing you sex,’ she said. ‘You were always so careful about making sure I was willing. It was ridiculous, really – I couldn’t wait to have you and you kept asking me if I was certain.’

‘I remember. You shouted at me.’

‘I did.’

He gave a small smile, which faded when they were brought wine by their attendants and then brightened when she laid her hand against his knee. It was clear she had not reassured Humphrey as much as he needed or as much as she would have liked. What she had, instead, was a fragile kind of peace that would not last. He was not satisfied with the reassurance she had given but that was fair. She had not explained, after all.

She sipped at her wine, watched Thomasine try to draw Humphrey’s attention by nearly spilling wine on him, and tried to work out what she would say.

‘Eleanor,’ he said when they were alone again. ‘Please.’

‘I’d taken a potion,’ she said. ‘To help me conceive. I was supposed to lie with you within hours of taking it. Otherwise, it wouldn’t work. It tasted horrible – I didn’t want to have to drink it again.’

‘Oh. Oh, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘You wanted to try again?’

She nodded. She had never really stopped trying though he didn’t need to know that. He stared away from her but laid his hand over hers where it rested on his knee. At last, he turned back and gathered her close, kissing her forehead.

‘My poor love,’ he said. ‘You should have said.’

‘I didn’t want to. You would’ve worried.’

‘I still did,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t know _what_ I was worried about. And you had to carry the burden alone all this time…’

‘I didn’t mind.’

He shook his head and kissed her again.

*

After the wine was finished, they explored the gardens further. By the fountain, they paused to watch the sunlight glistening in the cascade of falling water. Eleanor trailed her fingers through it, the coolness of the water running across her hand to pool in her palm. She felt lighter and heavier for telling Humphrey about the potion. It was no longer a secret, but he would want to do something with this information she had given him, and her failure had been exposed, her skin peeling back to reveal the festering wound beneath.

Humphrey was quiet. She could see him thinking – his eyes distant, his brow sometimes furrowing. It wasn’t until they reached the pond that he seemed to realise where they had gone and turned to ask if there was any bread or seed to feed the ducks. There wasn’t. He said it was of no matter.

There were ducks in the pond, calm and serene as they floated on its surface. But they weren’t really floating – they were swimming. Someone had once told her that below, unseen, their legs moved frantically to keep them afloat and no one knew how much effort they expended in making everything seem so graceful and effortless. Eleanor bit her lip hard. She knew how that felt.

‘Of course, I want an heir,’ Humphrey said. His hand squeezed hers. ‘I want a child. I always have. Part of that is the necessity, other parts… less so. I would have loved to have a child with you. I still would.’

‘I’m sorry—’ Eleanor could barely stop herself from trembling. She should never have said anything. He saw her now, saw the wound of her failure.

‘Don’t, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘Please. Let me finish.’

Her head bowed. The sun was too bright.

‘But, as much as I want those things, I want you more,’ he said. ‘You are my greatest friend, my best companion. You’re so clever, the things you see, the way you _talk_ – and you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. If I did not have you… I would be so unhappy. I wouldn’t want to be alive. You are so precious, Eleanor. You have always given me the greatest possible joy.’

She pressed her head against his chest, felt his arms wrap around her and squeeze her tight. She wanted to scream or cry or laugh. She wanted it to be ten years ago when they had vowed themselves to each other and everything seemed possible.

‘I would always choose you,’ he said. ‘ _Eleanor._ ’

She couldn’t, she couldn’t. A sob tore itself out of her throat; she clutched at him. All she could think of was the years trying and having nothing to show for it. All the times when the medicines had made her sick or uncomfortable and then refused to work. The coldness of the physician, his hand pushing between her legs. Margery’s sneering assurances and her vile potions and poultices. The day she had bled their only baby away and all she had to show for it were bloodied rags.

She was sobbing. She recognised it dimly, the raggedness of her breath, how tight and painful her chest felt, the way her shoulders hitched uncontrollably, how wet her face was. Humphrey was holding her tighter, rubbing her back and murmuring comforting nonsense.

The thing that hurt the most, she thought, was that he blamed her for none of it. _He loved her._ He loved her and it didn’t matter to her that she had failed in the most basic, most vital way a wife could. She had been sick – thrown up on _him_ – and he had comforted her. She had failed him and he still wanted her. She wept and he held her.

‘I love you so much,’ he said fiercely. ‘ _Eleanor_.’

‘I know,’ she said. Her lips felt numb.

‘You had better,’ he said and he sounded as if he been crying too.

*

Eleanor did not want to go in. The sun was warm on her back, the world aglow – it would be summer soon – and Humphrey’s arms were strong and solid around her. It felt as though she was separate from everything and to go inside would mean returning her life, feeling the bite of failure. But the day would end, the sun would set, and the night would be cold and her life would still be waiting for her.

Besides, she was exhausted. If they asked her to walk, she would stumble.

Humphrey sighed, his breath hot against the top of her ear. ‘I think we should go in.’

‘Carry me,’ she said without thinking. It was instinctual, an old joke between them. His laughter was weak but he held her tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

‘What,’ he said, ‘are you going to do when I’m too old to lift you? Which will be soon, in case you’re curious.’

Having started the joke, she could only finish it. ‘Have you hire someone to carry me, I suppose.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Only I am allowed to carry you.’

She smiled. ‘In that case, you are not allowed to get too old—’ She let out a yell as he picked her up. ‘Oh – oh, Humphrey, you shouldn’t. You’ll hurt yourself. Put me down. I can walk.’

He didn’t obey.

*

Humphrey was sleepy-eyed and warm beside her the next morning, his beard tickling her as he pressed a kiss to her white shoulder. His hands circled her waist, drew her closer until his mouth found hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, gave herself over to the slow kiss. When they parted, Humphrey kissed her neck and then her shoulder again.

‘I have been thinking,’ he said and she tensed. ‘If you’re… trying for a baby again, we both should.’

It was better and worse than she thought it would be. When they were first married, they had spent a long week with a physician, trying to work out why she was yet to fall pregnant. Her humours were too cold, he said, and she had laughed because her problem, as far as everyone else had told her, was that her humours ran too hot. Years of his remedies had followed until Eleanor had started asking Margery, who promised a vast array of remedies that were _better_ than anything a physician would offer. All Humphrey had to do was remain in her bed and it was rare that he was anywhere else.

‘Is there any point? The physician said that the fault lay in me.’

‘I remember what he said,’ Humphrey said. ‘He also said you were cold which is absurd. And sometimes physicians are wary of naming the husband as the guilty party.’

‘Don’t so stupid in name of being gallant,’ Eleanor said. ‘You have two children already.’

‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘But they were born a long time ago. Harry was alive then. He was quite fond of them, you know, though he barely saw them.’

She pressed herself closer to Humphrey, running her hand along his arm. She didn’t know how to think of the old king – he was always _Harry_ when Humphrey spoke of him, but she had never met him to feel comfortable with that familiarity. But it was hard to think of him as _Henry_ or _the dead king_ when Humphrey spoke about him with such warm candour and told her things she probably shouldn’t know about a king. But it helped him to talk about his eldest and most beloved brother and she hated the idea of telling him not to, to confine his grief and loss and swallow it down, just because she didn’t know what she should call the dead king.

Humphrey smiled and kissed her gently. ‘What I mean is that a lot has changed since then. And I never thought it was your fault, no matter the physician said. I don’t want to go on now as though it is your responsibility alone.’

Eleanor sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. There was little point to this. It was sweet of him – or deluded, she couldn’t be sure – to pretend but the fault lay in her, not him. The physician had said so. Margery had agreed. The existence of Arthur and Antigone confirmed it. But it would make him feel better and less useless if they both spoke to the physician again. She supposed it wouldn’t really do much harm to go through it all again.

After, when it all failed, there were more of Margery’s remedies to try and one would surely be the cure Margery promised.

‘We could go on pilgrimage,’ Eleanor said. ‘I know people go to Our Lady of Walsingham for help. I can go by myself if you can’t spare the time.’

Humphrey shook his head. ‘That’s just what I mean. You shouldn’t be doing this on your own. I will find the time – make it, if it can’t be found.’

Eleanor kissed him slowly, her hands cupping his face. His mouth moved against hers, opening. One leg slipped between hers as her hands trailed down his neck and shoulders, then moved down to grasp his buttocks. He grinned into the kiss but pulled back, pupils blown wide.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Do I need to tell you to stop being so stupidly gallant? Or shout at you – _again_?’

Humphrey laughed and leaned in to kiss her again, rolling her on top of him.

*

Eleanor sat down on the settle, sinking into the large cushions, and took the embroidery that her women had offered her. It was the sleeve of a new kirtle that she had been working on the day before she took ill. Bright birds, wings raised in flight, were vibrant against the green silk, and she had planned to surround the birds with twisting, leafy vines and pale flowers. She ran her finger over the threads already stitched, admired the sheen of the jewel-toned colours in the light, and went searching for the right colour thread.

The door to the solar opened and her women leapt to their feet, Thomasine turning pink, as Humphrey entered. He gestured at them to sit and went straight to Eleanor, bending to kiss her.

‘I’ve just spoken to the cook,’ she said. ‘Settled everything with the feast.’

‘We can delay if you’d rather wait,’ he said, throwing himself down beside her.

‘Of course I don’t,’ she said. ‘People would only gossip about _why._ And I’m quite recovered, I promise.’

He searched her face with those dark eyes, but his expression cleared. She kissed him, taking his hand and squeezing it tight. There was a book in his other hand and she recognised the cover. It was the copy of Plato’s _Symposium_ he had given her years and years ago, not long after they first met. She smiled.

‘You came here to read to me?’

‘We can play chess if you’d rather,’ he said. ‘Or you could try and teach me how to embroider, but that looks look too complicated and beautiful for me to even touch.’

‘You can touch it,’ she said. ‘Just not with a needle.’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

Eleanor laughed and rested her head on his shoulder, squeezing his hand. He loved her and maybe, _maybe,_ this time something the physician gave her would work. Humphrey deserved a child – it didn’t even have to be a son, though that would be better – and she wanted one so badly. But if it failed – and Eleanor expected it would – Margery had promised her something that would. Eleanor would not give up. And when there was a child, they would be happier still, so perfect that nothing else in the world would matter.

Until then, they had each other and that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> **Historical Notes**
> 
> There are few readily available and detailed sources on Eleanor Cobham’s life. I have pieced together my knowledge of her from two biographies of Humphrey (K. H. Vickers’ _Humphrey Duke of Gloucester_ (available on [Project Gutenberg here](http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41477)) and J. Davis’s _Duke Humphrey_ ), Amy Licence’s _Red Roses_ , Eleanor’s entry in the _Oxford Dictionary of National Biography_ by G. L. Harriss, Susan Higginbotham’s blogpost on Eleanor [here](https://www.susanhigginbotham.com/posts/eleanor-cobham-the-duchess-and-her-downfall/). and C. Marie Harker's article “The Two Duchesses of Gloucester and the Rhetoric of the Feminine” in _Historical Reflections/Réflexions Historiques_ , Volume 30, Issue 1.
> 
> Similarly, there is no readily available information on Eleanor’s attempts to conceive or the fertility treatments she employed apart from those connected with her trial (and there, the mentions are limited to "potions" to help her conceive). Kristen L. Geaman’s article, 'Anne of Bohemia and Her Struggle to Conceive' (in _Social History of Medicine_ , Volume 29, Issue 2) was helpful in working out what other conception remedies Eleanor might have tried before turning to Margery Jourdemayne for help. 
> 
> Humphrey is known to have two illegitimate children, Arthur (or “Arteys”) and Antigone. We don’t know when they were born or who their mother was, though it’s quite common to see Eleanor listed as their mother as she is the only woman identified as Humphrey's mistress. Personally, I doubt she was their mother - there would have been attempts to legitimise them after she and Humphrey married (as the Beaufort children were legitimised after John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford's marriage) and Eleanor's anxiety about her lack of children would not be so strong if she had two already. The fact that Antigone gave birth to her first son, Richard Grey (later Earl of Tankerville) by 1436 suggests to me that she was born before Eleanor's known time as Humphrey's mistress (c. 1425-1428). Antigone's second son was named Humphrey so I have guessed, based on the common medieval practice of naming the child after a godparent, that Humphrey stood as godfather for the boy. Some genealogy sites give his birthdate in 1438.
> 
> Humphrey's three brothers all died before him - Thomas, Duke of Clarence in 1421, Harry/Henry V in 1422 and John, Duke of Bedford in 1435.
> 
> The names Eleanor cites for her imagined children are all based on names common to Humphrey's family, like Henry (his father, brother and nephew) and Blanche (his sister and paternal grandmother), or belong to family close to him, such as Joanne of Navarre, his stepmother, or his mother, Mary de Bohun. 
> 
> Eleanor's reputation has always been poor. She initially was cast as the "shameless seductress" who "bewitched" Humphrey away from his "rightful" wife, Jacqueline of Hainault. Later, after his marriage to Jacqueline was annulled and they married, she was seen as vain and selfish. Similar accusations were made about Katherine Swynford and Elizabeth Woodville and seem not to reflect reality but attitudes about women who married "above" their status. The final nail in Eleanor's coffin was the accusations of treason and witchcraft made against her in 1441, though most historians suggest that these were relatively baseless and designed to exploit her unpopularity to alienate and disgrace Humphrey, who was a vocal opponent to Henry VI's policies of peace with France.
> 
> It was important to me to depict the relationship between Humphrey and Eleanor as loving and affectionate. I can't help but view it as a love match - Humphrey did not have to marry her and it was an unpopular choice that gave him no material benefit. Nor is there any suggestion I've found that he had other lovers during their marriage or in the six years after their forced divorce - an account suggests he was lured to the 1447 parliament in Bury St Edmunds where he was arrested for treason and died in custody by the possibility of gaining a pardon for Eleanor. Both have a lot of grief and trauma in their lives so giving them some happiness and a haven from the bad things in their lives seemed to stop things from getting too grim.


End file.
